The Phoenix Reborn
by m4te
Summary: Asch Fuerre - a young man with a haunting past and uncertain future. Follow him and the rest of Team AZRN as he meets new friends and encounters old enemies during his time at Beacon Academy. This is an OC team fan-fiction, with several nods to canon events. I'd love a review, but above all else, I just hope you enjoy reading it. Rated M for language and violence. - m4te


**Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership over RWBY, the RWBY Universe, any characters, locations, or objects seen in RWBY, or any other intellectual property associated with RWBY; these intellectual properties rightfully belong to Mr. Monty Oum and Rooster Teeth Productions.**

**I do, however, claim ownership over those original characters and their weapons which I have created for this fanfic; these intellectual properties which I do own include, but are not limited to: Asch Fuerre, Zale Calder, Reiz Klar, Sterling Nasoudin, Cassius Rivers, Gael Rivers, Saraph Atermin, Kerwin Atermin, Ferris McCommidhe, Blademerang, Chameleon, and the Dethroned King.**

* * *

**Prologue**

A wooden door, worn from age and abuse, stood sullenly, hanging slightly askew in its hinges. Dust motes illuminated by the light of the setting sun danced lazily in front of the room's only window – a small pane of glass, cracked long ago in an outburst of rage. The soft, subdued _whump_ of unseen subwoofers gently rocked a wooden chair back and forth, one leg shorter than the other three; the chair's back tapped out a lilting rhythm against the mildewed desk that it catered to. Slowly, the specks of dust settled to the ground, and the small, neglected room took on a momentary air of tranquility.

However, the peace was not meant to last. The door knob came to life, rattling back and forth, its rusty mechanisms unwilling to comply. From the other side of the battered door, a muffled grunt of anger erupted, and with a violent _crack_, the door came open, the dead-bolt snapped in two. In strode a middle-aged giant of a man, clothed in a pristine white dress-shirt that was accompanied by a dark vest, his gait interrupted by a slight limp. Slowly, he eased himself into the chair, wincing ever so slightly from pain as he sat. He straightened his crimson tie and began to stroke his short, dark beard out of habit as the door shuddered once more.

With a low, gentle creak, the door opened, leaving a man silhouetted by the bright pulsing red and white lights of the dance floor behind him. Slowly, he stepped into the room, his features gradually exposed by the setting sun's light. He was dressed in a shabby gray suit, the elbows of his coat threadbare, his brown leather shoes scuffed with age; not an inch of his skin was visible. Even his face was obscure, hidden by the shadows cast by his dark fedora and a metallic, concealing mask that covered more than half of his face.

Softly, the ragged man began to speak, his voice gravelly, his sentences broken as he struggled to force out words, visibly in pain from the effort.

"What… have you discovered of… _him_," he slowly ground out.

With a sneer, the bearded man stood to his full height and pressed his clenched fists into the top of the desk, towering over the shabby man in front of him. "What do you take me for, an idiot?" he snarled. "Show me the Lien."

With sleight of hand, Lien cards appeared in the stranger's hand, and he set them on the desk. He did not offer any verbal retaliation; his annoyance was audible enough in his rough, heavy breathing.

Leisurely, the bearded man counted the Lien, and set them aside, satisfied. Pulling out a drawer from the desk's back, he drew out a manila folder, and threw it on the top of the desk. With a single finger, he flipped open the cover, revealing a small stack of papers, topped with a single photograph.

The shadowy stranger took a raspy gasp; the picture was grainy and blurred from a hasty exposure, the unknowing subject standing on a bustling street corner - nonetheless, the figure standing in it was impossible to mistake. The messy, jet-black hair, the friendly hazel eyes, the thin, silvery scar that ran underneath his left eye.

"He's been in hiding. Only ever in public if he's with this man," the bearded man said, tapping a figure in the corner of the photograph. "Cassius Rivers."

No response came from the masked man; his eyes were locked with those of the boy in the picture. The eye which was not concealed by his mask was burning – with rage, with fear, with anger. Above everything else, a single, all-consuming emotion was roiling within him.

A desperate, burning need for revenge.

Slowly, the masked man reached out with a gloved hand, closing the folder. Slipping it inside his suit jacket, he abruptly turned around.

"I'll be back, Xiong," he muttered as he opened the door, letting in a flood of club music and pulsing light, once again diminishing himself to a dark silhouette. As the door swung shut, Junior Xiong shook his head and absent-mindedly counted the Lien again.

"Who was _that_?" Melanie Malachite questioned as she opened what was left of the door, curling her lip in disapproval as half of the deadbolt fell to the ground and clinked against her razor-sharp, metallic heels.

"Some idiot named Atermin," Junior replied, kicking his feet up on top of the desk. "The man's fucking insane – had me spend the last week finding everything I could about some damn kid," he continued.

"He pays good," Melanie stated, greedily eyeing the stack of Lien on the desk.

Seeming to ignore her comment, Junior stood and opened the door. "Get back out on the floor," he growled. "You aren't here to stand around and look pretty."

Melanie offered nothing but an annoyed grunt, following Junior to his usual post at the bar, her heels occasionally crunching against pieces of glass that had been overlooked during the cleanup of the club that had occurred just three days prior.

Outside the club, Saraph Atermin walked down the street, still clutching the folder to his chest, paranoid of losing its contents. Slowly, he let loose a chuckle. Before the end of the block, it grew into full-on laughter, distorted into a deep rumble by his mangled vocal cords. Maniacal, crazed laughter, drawn on by the end of that which had consumed his every waking moment for the better half of a decade.

Ignoring disapproving looks from passerby, he slowly regained his composure, and looked back down at the hastily prepared collection of papers that he held in his hands. After seven long years of searching, relentlessly scouring the slums and outskirts of Vale, he had finally found him. _He had finally found him. _

Now, Saraph Atermin was moving in for the kill.


End file.
